


Good Enough

by Xiaojian



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Angst, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Kink Meme, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-08
Updated: 2016-02-08
Packaged: 2018-05-18 23:59:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,195
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5948188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xiaojian/pseuds/Xiaojian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ocelot wants the ghost of a man he could never have. Liquid wants the ghost of affection he could never have. They don't care that they're ruining each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a request from mgs-kink on dreamwidth. I've cleaned it up a tad. Amazingly, I somehow still haven't played TPP, so this is still written with only MGS1-era knowledge of these two.

There’s a little game we play. A game of “pretend.” The rules are simple. 

He pretends he cares about me. He pretends I’m the most important thing in the world, that I’m all he’ll ever want. He pretends that he holds me because I mean something to him, that he fucks me because he loves me, and that he kisses me because he needs me.

I pretend I don’t know I’m not the one he really wants. I pretend I don’t notice the way his gaze always glazes over my right eye _(sorry old man, I'm not going to poke it out for you),_ or the way he keeps his own eyes closed when we’re having sex. I try not to talk too much. I know he doesn’t like being reminded of my accent.

An easy game, really.

-

Sometimes, his demands are a bit too much.

“Ocelot, I’ve told you, I can’t. My throat isn’t built that way. My gag reflex just doesn’t allow it.”

I’m trying to make it up to him, regretful that I can’t fulfill his request, but he shoves me off of his lap and leaves in a huff. He makes sure to mutter loudly enough that I can hear him.

“Worthless little…can’t do anything right…”

He shuns me for a week, refusing to even speak to me beyond what our duties require. He won’t listen to a word of my apologies, and shoves me away when I try to hold him. I try to tell myself I’m not that pathetic, I don’t need his affections to make it through the day. After all, I have my pride, don't I?

But when the week ends, I corner him in his quarters and start my apology by dropping to my knees, ready to show him how sorry I am. My pride is nowhere to be found.

“Good boy,” he pets my cheek and purrs.

It hurts.

My throat can’t take much of him before I start gagging, and I try my best to make up for it by using my hands. Clearly, it’s not enough for him. He grabs my hair and yanks me forward. I start choking, but he barely lets up enough to allow me to breathe. I dig my nails into his hips, but he either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. Knowing him, it's probably the latter.

It’s all worth it, however, when it’s over. When he wipes the tears from my cheeks, kisses my brow, and holds me tight. When there’s whispers of “you did a great job,” “look at how strong you are,” “I’m so proud of you.”

I’ll do anything to hear that.

-

He knows how much I like it when he plays with my hair.

When things are about me, it seems he always has at least one hand in it. Soft strokes in the gentler moments, demanding tugs in the rougher ones. One day, when his fingers are tangled in it as deeply as our legs are tangled together, he leans down and mutters into my ear.

“Have you ever considered dyeing this brown?”

-

We’re in my office, poring over security camera footage. Ocelot traces the outline of the man on the screen with a thin, withered finger.

“Your brother is an amazing man.”

I hit fast-forward.

“Really, who else could pull off these amazing feats?”

I hit stop. 

“He truly is his father’s son.”

I turn off the screen and press myself against him, pulling him into a kiss to shut him up.

“Could my brother do this?”

I can feel him smile under my lips.

“No.”

-

One night, in the middle of everything, he stops. At first I just lay still and wait, impatient, but I open my eyes when I hear him crying.

I pull his head to my chest and whisper, “I’m sorry.”

I don’t know what I’m apologizing for.

-

I never let it be just about his needs.

One day, he becomes overconfident. He assumes I’ve gotten complacent, that he doesn’t need to live up to his end of the deal. After three nights of him leaving me, or sending me away as soon as he’s gotten off, I decide to break him of that notion.

I’m cold to any and all of his attempts at affection for two weeks – longer than he denied me, and long enough for him to get the message. The next time he comes to my office after hours he showers me with praise and apologies.

“I shouldn’t take you for granted.”

“You’re so important to me.”

“I’d be a fool not to see how precious you are.”

I soak up the empty words like a desert traveler at an oasis, and welcome him back into my arms with no further argument. I may be a whore, but even a whore demands payment for his work.

-

Mantis knows it’s going on, of course.

I pass him in the hall one night, storming away from Ocelot’s room after he refused to meet my simple requirements (or the other way around – I lose track sometimes). Mantis stops me with a raised hand and a slow, disapproving shake of his head.

“Boss…you’re a sad, sad man.”

He probably expects me to blow up in his face, or at the very least deny it. Instead, I nod.

“I know.”

-

I realize pretty quickly that he’s just following a script. A tiny list of pre-programmed phrases, engineered to get the best response out of me and make me the most receptive. He knows exactly what I want to hear.

“Good boy.”

“I’m so proud of you.”

“You did a great job.”

“You’re so strong.”

“I’m so lucky to have you.”

“You mean the world to me.”

“You’re one-of-a-kind.”

“I love you.”

I don’t care. It’s my right to hear those words, and if I have to pry them from someone on my knees, on my back, or simply bent over a table – so be it. I’m just making up for lost time.

-

I pretend I don’t notice the names that fall from his lips.

No one calls me Snake. I don’t know why, but they never have. I suppose I’m not good enough to bear the moniker of the legendary soldier, even if it is my code name. Just another thing I'm not worthy of.

And my name certainly isn’t John.

-

“We can’t keep doing this.”

It’s Ocelot who says it. Sitting on the edge of my bed, head in his hands. I don’t ask what he means. I know what he means. I’ve thought it myself, sometimes. But the thought of losing this – the words, the touches, the attention – terrifies me so much I drive the wicked little idea from my mind immediately. 

I’ve noticed that it’s not the thought of losing _him_ that scares me.

He starts to elaborate, laying out a long list of rational arguments for why we should put a stop to this madness and not drag each other down any further, but I silence him with my mouth. Acknowledging that this is all pretend is breaking the rules of the game.

I’m very good at this game. And he’s good enough.


End file.
